


High Above

by TerraCaelum



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 15:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraCaelum/pseuds/TerraCaelum





	High Above

     High above, the vast expanses of sky were clear, not a spot of white brushed their smooth surface. The sun was a bright point straight above, warming the earth and the air around; a gentle breeze, warm and fragrant with the beginnings of summer, rolled atop the sea. The fathomless depths swelled and dispersed, rocking the otherwise calm surface. Sailors and pirates alike, that were fortunate enough to be out roaming the open seas on that day, found it perfect.

     That is, if you were on deck.

  
Below deck was an entirely different story. Away from the sunshine and below the waves, there was no clear sky, only a suffocating darkness. The air was deathly still and stale with stagnant water. The wood splintered where it had soaked and dried too many times, it molded where water sat far too long, it bent in dangerous curves where it warped and strained against the hull. The store room rocked against the waves, falling and rising sharply, and the floor tilted, lurching, in every direction; the smooth rolls of water at the surface were only a guise for the ripping torrents beneath.

     Among the musty, chaos of the storage room's barrels and crates sat a disheveled boy, thin and weary from weeks of lacking food and drink, bored half-to-death from having nothing but the rats and his own thoughts to keep him company.

     His hair had once been the color of wheat, but now it sat on his head, dingy and matted with the salt and grime. His clothes quickly degraded in the harsh conditions, soiled from endless wear, in the weeks spent below deck. The fabric was constantly damp, and the salt chaffed his skin if he moved too much. Only his boots and a pair of self-made brass goggles, fashioned when his vision had begun to weaken years earlier, did he make any attempt to take care of, limited space aside. The last thing he needed was to lose his feet to trench rot, or be rendered as good as blind. So long as there was a will, and by God there was a will, there would be a way, and he knew by any means necessary he would find a way to survive.

     Even though he could not see beyond the damp walls of store room in which he hid, he knew it was still light out. Beyond the wooden walls, he could hear the faint din of the ship’s crew. He could hear the shouting of orders and the responding confirmation, the same untied shout of, “Aye,” from the crewmen. After so many weeks, he’d been able to discern a few things about this ship: it was obviously from England. It was also filled with people who clearly did not want to abide by any English laws, people who’d rather not belong to the whole of that country. He knew what it was, and it sent a, sometimes cold dreading, others a blaring excited, thrill down his spine. This was a pirate ship.

     He never dared move around during the day. He was reckless, he admitted this freely now, but he was not suicidal and most certainly not stupid. So like he had for the past few weeks, during the day he idly bided his time, hiding as deep in the ship as he could manage. The room itself was the driest on the level; he had searched for better but to no avail. The crates, he had arranged slowly, as to not bring notice to their movement, to create a fort of sorts. It was here, solid wooden crates towering upward, off kilter creating a ceiling for the fort, in front of him, the corner of the room behind him, he stayed and occasionally, ironically, called home. It was here, that he hid from pirates that would no doubt kill him if they found him stowing away. It was here, he lay back against the wall staring at crates wondering if that ever so faint scent he smelled were some of the exotic spices he’d always heard about being plundered on the open seas. It was here that he let his head fall back against the wood and eyes once as bright and clear as the sky, now hollow depths like the unforgiving sea, were concealed by crusted lashes and he again found himself recalling, just how he had ended up here.  


  


***

  


     The day was as gorgeous as any other summer day in Virginia; the skies were blue like the waters on the horizon and clear like the mountain streams. It was as gorgeous as the several days before and probably the several more to come. Simply put, not even the usually unpredictable weather provided excuse for boredom, which came in abundance in such small, out-of-the-way, port towns.

     Alfred Jones bemoaned his luck at living in a town like this and spent the time he wasn’t forced to sit at the counter in his family’s general store, above the shop in the family’s home, complaining about it. As many evenings prior had ended, he’d been shoved off to the bedroom he shared with his brother by his mother, whose patience for her more vocal son had finally worn too thin. To his benefit though, Matthew was home early today—it could be assumed things with Katya had gotten tense, since Matthew spent every free moment with her—and Matthew was a great listener.

     “Matt! How can a guy like me hope to do anything great in a puny town like this?” Alfred had immediately picked up with Matthew where he’d left off with his mother mere seconds earlier as he threw his body onto his simple mattress, on its simple oak frame, underneath the single window in the bedroom.

     Without even lifting his head from the book in his hands—the gesture would be wasted on Alfred—Matthew rolled his eyes. He’d heard his brother’s spiel more times than their mother and father combined. He knew the whole rant by heart now and could probably recite it as well as Alfred. If everything was as awful as Alfred said, he didn’t know why his brother hadn’t simply left yet, instead of constantly complaining like a child. He really couldn’t believe he and Alfred were the same age.

     “The nearest city with any potential is nearly a week away! And that’s even if you pay the coachman to ride through the night,” Alfred’s voice was rising and his hands had joined in the tirade as well, “and don’t even get me started on how this region is totally out to get creative inventors like me!”

     “Then why don’t you just leave, Alfred” Matthew avoided his usual route of letting Alfred simply exhaust himself and voiced his exasperated thoughts instead.

     Alfred’s words stammered to a halt as he stared at his brother, on the other bed against the opposite wall, with owlish eyes. “Wha—very funny Matt! What a mean thing to say!” Alfred laughed. Sometimes his brother could say the most outrageous things, especially when it came to him.

     Matthew interrupted, cutting Alfred’s hysterics short, “No, Alfred, if it’s really as bad as you say it is why don’t you just get everything together and leave? Why not just save up your money, for once, and just get out of here?”

     With narrowing eyes, Alfred stared at his twin. He was torn between feeling the excitement of how simple it sounded to just pick up and leave and the bitter anger that his own brother would be so blunt and callous with him. Logic told him it was that easy, he could just up and leave when ever he pleased if he wanted, but it wasn’t as easy as Matthew made it sound. Matthew just didn’t understand. As he calculated the necessary funds in his head, eyes wandering towards the ceiling, his brow began to furrow in frustration; Matthew just wouldn’t understand.

     “It’s just not that easy Matt! There’s money for food and travel and you can’t forget money to sustain myself when I finally get somewhere!” Alfred’s brows furrowed as he gave Matthew what he hoped was his best scathing glare.

      Once again those doubts of fraternity reared their ugly heads as Matthew sighed quietly to himself. Without even glancing up he knew Alfred was pouting as he usually did. “That’s never seemed to stop you before. How much money do you manage to save up and entirely fester away on all that junk for your, er…inventions?”

     “My inventions are not junk—Matt, my inventions are not made of junk!” Alfred had jolted up, body propped up on his elbows as he shouted in vain at his brother who was already back to ignoring him.

     With a heavy sigh Alfred glanced over towards his window and somewhere outside it he could hear the dull roar of voices in the distance. It really seemed like everyone else in town had something to do but him. Every week it seemed there was some sort of festival or competition happening and there always seemed to be some rule or some one making sure he was excluded.

      The din of voices quickly grew in volume, and when it sounded as if they weren’t going to be passing by Alfred rolled to sit upright so he could look out the window to see what the commotion was this time. Below his window, he was surprised to see an impressively large crowd of people, all shouting something indiscernible in the cacophony. Matthew, some how immune to basic human curiosity, remained firmly planted on his own bed.

     A thunderous boom rattled the house as someone in the crowd began knocking on the door and shouting above the crowd entirely, demanding the door be opened in a voice to match. The man was unmistakable, the slight accent made the owner of the voice obvious; it was Ivan, the governor of their small establishment, better known around their home as Katya’s brother.

     “Oh God! It’s Braginski, Matt! What the hell did you do?” Alfred called back over his shoulder with a chuckle of disbelief. It was no secret that Ivan was very protective of his younger sister, especially since she’d begun to develop into rather shapely young woman.

     “Matt,” Alfred questioned the silence, “Matt, did you hear me? Braginski’s here! Matt!” Alfred swiveled around only to stop short as he came to face the empty room. Matthew had vanished and it was always eerie how skilled his brother was at disappearing.

     Just as sudden as the foundation-shaking knocking had occurred, the thundering of heavy foot steps stampeded through the home and his bedroom door was nearly being kicked off its hinges by a massive booted foot. Following that boot came the rest of the towering governor, he was always easy to pick out by his extremely fair colored hair and the pale eyes shared by his entire family. With in seconds of entering the room Ivan launched at the blonde sitting dumbly in his bed.

     What Alfred lacked in size he made up for in speed. Despite having been caught off guard by the other larger, livid man Alfred dropped off his bed just in time. However Ivan was not easily deterred and the ensuing scuffle broke its fair share of furniture.

     “You've impregnated my dear Katya you dirty little beast!” Ivan roared the accusation as Alfred’s eyes flew wide open, suddenly understanding why Matthew vanished without a trace; the majority of the town still couldn’t tell them apart.

     Alfred tried to speak up, tried the voice the obvious denial, but Ivan was already upon him again, making a grab for him with those bear claw hands. The only advantage Alfred had in that small space was simply the fact he new the room better than Ivan; he didn’t trip over the corner post of the bed or clip his hip on the small desk by the door as he dodged the man’s furious grasps. It was the only way he’d managed to barely slip past Ivan.

     If Alfred had thought the crowd of curious townspeople had looked large from a distance, then it was absolutely massive as he barreled out the door, forced to charge and scrabble his way through the mass of bodies. Ivan was right on his heels, screaming more accusations of premarital sex and threats of snapping his neck with his bare hands himself before the noose ever got a chance. Alfred had never known he could run that fast.

     Now, Ivan had the crowd—it was more like a mob—on his side. Far be it from them to miss a chance at entertainment: nothing like an execution to liven up a dull week. With Ivan not far behind, his mob of sheep in tow, Alfred was forced to flee through the town. Even he wasn’t recklessly stupid enough to think he could take on an angry mob.

     There were very few places for Alfred to run as the crowd swiftly converged around him blocking of more and more of his narrow escape routes. He was being forced in the direction of the harbor where he’d have no escape unless he wanted to dive into ocean and swim for it. The only benefit to that was the prospect of dying on his own terms as a freeman, rather than as a prisoner in the gallows or an exile in the wild.

     Alfred’s chest heaved with his labored breathing as he staggered out of a narrow alleyway and out into the open air of the harbor. He could hear the shouts and hollers of the pursuing townspeople as they weaved their own ways between the buildings. With panic warping his judgment and fueling his body he bolted down the small boardwalk piers.

     The town, which was barely a town, was a small one and was on none of the major trade routes so it saw little traffic in or out, whether it was people or ships. The rare visitors the town did see were little more than people that needed to dock through a bad storm or buy a few extra days supplies before they reached the actual trade port several hundred miles up the coast in the Chesapeake. Alfred knew this and had little hope of actually finding his escape in that harbor—he was certain this was it—so it was with giddy and frantic excitement that he spotted that large ship docked at the farthest end of the pier.

     Recklessly, Alfred barreled down the dock and scrambled up the gang plank that stretched the gap to the ship. He was so terrified of the approaching mob that he didn’t even have the time to consider just how lucky he’d been to happen upon the ship devoid of its crew, for the evening. Panic-stricken he scrambled into the cabin of the ship, farther into the hold of the ship; he continued until he no longer heard the clamorous voices of the villagers, until he was safely tucked away with the cargo.  


  


  
***  


  


     A wave then slammed into the hull of the ship, sending it and some of the cargo, lurching to the side. Alfred, disoriented from having dozed off at some point during his reminiscing, started awake as the force of the wave sent him rolling to boxes that made up his hideout. His pulse sky rocketed briefly as he stared upward at the dangerously teetering crates and without wasting another moment he scrambled, on hands and knees, away frantically just in time to watch them topple to the ground in a dusty heap.

     While Alfred sat on the floor in shock—giddy terrified shock—the raucous crashing of crates caught the attention of the few crewmen. They had been walking their usual rounds of the lower decks, just a routine check up of the cargo, when they heard the crashes. Upon checking the hold to see if anything had been damaged, they finally laid their eyes on the waifish stow-away.

     If Alfred had been afraid when he thought the crates were going to crush him or when Ivan had lunged at him with murderous intent, then he could only describe the feeling he had as he was dragged through the ship and thrown onto the floor of what could only be the captain’s cabin as absolute terror. As the crewmen were sent away with a curt gesture, the man standing above him stared down with sharp and piercing green eyes.

     Alfred could only briefly observe the room he was dropped into, it was furnished and complimented by a window, before the hollow thuds of the captain’s boots dragged his attention back. The captain small—no, rather, compact—and slender but this in no way subtracted from his imposing aura as his fingers drummed tentatively on the grip of his still holster flintlock pistol.

     Alfred started when the other man finally spoke. His was voice low and dangerous and his accent thick and rough, "I don't appreciate stowaways,” the man began in obvious displeasure, “and if you're not willing to work, then the only reason I would have to keep you around, that is whether or not I feel like sparing your life, is target practice.”

     Alfred gaped, and his throat felt dry, “W-wor—”

     The captain immediately interrupted and cut of Alfred shaken words, “Yes, work! I’ve no patience for your cowardly babbling. You had best make yourself useful to me or you’re better off as shark food.” The captain continued to step around Alfred, occasionally stopping to stare down his nose at the filthy boy on the floor and prod at him with a polished leather boot. “Underneath all that filth,” he circled around Alfred stopping when he was once again in front of him, “you look decently strong and,” though his expression was still cold, his voice had picked up, “we’ve not gone to dock for weeks and yet here you sit, alive. You must be quite the clever boy to get by for so long unnoticed.”

     Alfred could only sit in silence as the ship’s captain regarded him like a cut of meat, prodding him as if checking for quality. If he tried to speak up the captain only spoke over him completely disregarding everything he attempted to utter. When the captain finally fell silent and looked to Alfred expecting an answer, Alfred found himself at a loss for words.

     “Answer me now, boy! I am not a patient man and I’ve more important things to attend to than you.”

     Never one to give in, not even weeks ago when he first found out he was trapped in the hold of a pirate ship, Alfred pushed himself up and onto his feet. He was pleased to see he stood taller than the captain and squared his shoulders back as he stepped closer to the man. “Well, I’m sure as hell not about to choose death—not when I’ve come this far.”

     Finally, the captain seemed pleased, “That’s what I like to hear, boy.”

     Alfred, never once ceasing his attempts to size up the captain, gave a petulant snort, “My name’s Alfred Jones! Stop calling me boy!”

     “Your name is really no concern of mine,” Arthur could sense this boy was going to be a chore but it had been a while since he’d had the pleasure of breaking someone. “However, I suggest you remember my name. I am Arthur Kirkland.”

     Never giving in, not for a second, “What a displeasure, Arth—”

     It’d been far too long, “And that’ll be Captain Kirkland to you, boy.”  
  



End file.
